Marvel Magic Case Files

Chapter 270 A Prophetic Dream from the Priest (First Update!)

"You stink all over, go take a shower." The Sorcerer Supreme waved his hand, signaling Salomon to quickly clean himself up. The stench of blood and sweat mixed together from various dark magic creatures was something even vampires wouldn't like; everyone here was a normal person.

"One more thing," the Venerable One added before his disciple left, "Athena told me that you don't need to go there today. Little Lorna has already returned home safely. In the coming days, the wise goddess of war will personally hunt down those fools, so you can rest assured."

"You should know that my anger stems from guilt, shouldn't it?" Salomon said to the Venerable before leaving. "Marduk's target is me, and Mephisto's target is me as well. They want to use me to sit on that chair. If innocent children were to die because of me, I would never be able to forgive myself."

"It's good to taste guilt. Now, what you need to do most is make yourself smell good again. The world won't stop turning just because you're gone. You vengeful kid, go have dinner with the witch. You need to relax. When revenge is taken, I promise you'll be at the forefront."

Salomon bowed and respectfully withdrew from the meditation room.

"You should have called us, Boya." Bayonetta gently stroked the hair of her lover lying on her lap, her tone unusually tender. Since she met Salomon, their relationship had gone from wanting to kill each other because of their opposing stances to developing a lingering affection because of memories from five hundred years ago. In all that time they had spent together, Bayonetta had never seen Salomon so angry. She felt that every inch of the arcane mage's skin was thick with rage when he returned home.

"We're all so bored we're itching for a fight," she said. "There are too few angels in Europe. Joan of Arc and I can't always pretend to be nuns. That only attracts friendly angels, and it's not as much exercise as a yoga session."

"But this is official business, darling." Salomon closed his eyes, enjoying the witch's caresses and the intoxicating scent of her perfume. He rubbed against Bayonetta's thigh, and the witch gently pinched his nose until Salomon grumbled a few times in dissatisfaction. Only then did the witch release her grip and move on to play with other parts of his body.

Previously, in his extreme anger, Salomon had chosen to deal with his enemies through melee combat rather than magic, resulting in him being covered in their blood. He had now changed his clothes; his previous garments had been burned, and even his bathwater had been poured into the deserted wasteland—after all, who knew what strange creatures might be created in this chaotic universe by a bathwater mixed with the blood of all dark magic creatures?

He was exhausted, especially after eating; his eyes were almost too heavy to keep open. Bayonetta wanted Salomon to go to bed with her that night, but this idea was met with strong opposition from Joan of Arc, who dropped the Cheshire Cat she was playing with and tried to drag Salomon up. Fortunately, Bayonetta stopped Joan's absurd act in time, allowing Salomon to continue resting on her lap.

"That was an operation against you. We are qualified to go to hell and kill that hell lord. Don't forget, Boya, you're the weakest one in this house—" the witch said with a laugh, "—if you don't count the Cheshire Cat and your little maid."

Just then, the apartment doorbell rang. Salomon opened his eyes, struggling to get up from Bayonetta's lap, and sent the homunculus to see who it was. When the homunculus returned with the message, the arcane mage's eyes narrowed, as if he were deep in thought.

"Who has come?" Joan of Arc asked curiously.

Not many people knew this address, and she couldn't guess who would visit after dinner. Salomon provided the answer—"Father Moru," he said. "That alcoholic black priest. He came to see me. He told Dinah he had something very important to tell me. He said my calamity was near, that I had gone astray, and that I was about to descend to the Palace of Death."

"You seem to value this guy a lot, aren't you? You weren't angry after hearing those threatening words," Bayonetta asked, "Why?"

"He might see the guy who gave me the Stigmata." Salomon stood up, brushing off his wrinkled shirt. "I still have a score to settle with that guy." He asked the witch, "Should we receive him?"

"Since he wants to be a guest, let him in."

Father Moru would even bring a bottle of wine when he visited, but it was for his own consumption. "I know about your situation, including what happened to you, just before it occurred," he said bluntly. "I know you're probably wondering where I got this information, and I can only tell you that I learned about it while I was praying."

"Wasn't it when you drank until you blacked out?" The sorcerer was never one to mince words, especially when dealing with servants of God.

"Hmph!" Father Moru couldn't refute the sorcerer's sarcasm, because he had indeed dreamt of Salomon's situation after drinking until he blacked out; he couldn't lie. The reason he remembered it was because ordinary people wouldn't remember what they dreamt after drinking until they blacked out, but he still remembered what he dreamt about.

That's why, immediately after recovering from his hangover, he flew from Europe to New York without a moment's delay.

"But you're drinking again now." The sorcerer looked disdainful after hearing his explanation. He suspected that Father Moru had drunk too much and damaged his brain—it was a miracle that Father Moru's liver was still intact given how much he drank.

"This is the best antidote for a hangover." Father Morru glanced disapprovingly at the witch beside Salomon.

The witch is a woman who practices sorcery, a lackey of the devil, Delilah who cut off Samson's hair, the great harlot of Babylon who rode a seven-headed, ten-horned monster and led the Holy Son to the land of slaughter. Morru was extremely displeased with Salomon's association with the witch, but he knew that Salomon would never listen to him. He had come here only to inform Salomon of the danger he was about to face.

"I dreamt that you were facing a three-headed dragon in a black fire that could burn your soul." Father Moru took another swig of strong liquor. His drinking speed even made Salomon suspect that Father Moru had bought the bottle from the supermarket downstairs, and that the strong liquor he brought from Europe had long been finished.

"The dragon had green, snake-like tongues, and its venomous saliva, when it fell to the ground, turned into poisonous plants," the priest said. "I saw you riding a warhorse without a saddle or stirrups, facing the dragon with a spear and a longsword. I saw you using your spear to pin the dragon to the ground..."

"Wait, wait, this story sounds so familiar!" Salomon quickly stopped Father Moru's ramblings. "This is clearly the story of St. George slaying the dragon. Although many of what you said matches my own account quite well—for example, my warhorse does indeed lack a saddle and stirrups, and I do possess a sword and a lance—that doesn't mean what you're saying is correct—have you forgotten your dream and started making it up?"

"Then how do you explain that I dreamt about it before you were attacked?" Father Moru's gaze flickered from the edge of the bottle to the sorcerer. He swallowed his drink and coughed twice. "You've always refused to believe in God. This shouldn't have happened to you." He glanced at the two alluring witches. "You are indeed the Messiah, the second Messiah. The responsibilities you bear are far greater than they are now. Your very existence is meant to make you Savior. Remember what I told you before? You can perform miracles without external magic. What stopped you from doing so? Your teacher?"

"No, it's height," the sorcerer said with feigned seriousness. Father Moru clearly didn't accept this nonsensical explanation, yet it was the truth.

"In any case, you'd better study carefully what you took from the monastery. The wisdom of the Lord is in there; it's something you can understand. Don't look at me like that. I know those guys from the Golden Dawn; they also came to the monastery seeking wisdom, but they didn't take much with them because it was something they were destined not to understand. They weren't even qualified to receive the Blood of the Holy One." Father Moru stood up, preparing to take his leave. "My dream is what is about to happen; what you need is the Lord's strength."

"Forget it. If God is truly omnipotent, then we humans are nothing but ants. Our burnt offerings are the remains of insects, and our worship is the murmur of mosquitoes. It means nothing to God—unless He is a narcissist who is obsessed with listening to praise. Moru, would you like the worship of mosquitoes?"

It seems like there are too many Bible references, and I'm a little worried that you won't understand it... How about I explain it separately?

Luckily, I was drinking alone, otherwise my talkative and unruly behavior when drunk would have been truly...

(End of this chapter)